


anything for you

by satellites (brella)



Category: Community (TV)
Genre: F/M, First Kiss, Roleplay, Star Wars References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-06
Updated: 2012-12-06
Packaged: 2017-11-20 12:05:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brella/pseuds/satellites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Annie has a type. And it's not him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	anything for you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [trinadear](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=trinadear).



> 12 Days of Ficmas: Day Three.  
> trinadear requested: Annie/Abed in the Dreamatorium Star Wars-verse; OR, Han Solo-Abed comes back

Under the right set of circumstances, Annie is a fierce warrior. Not only that, but she’s his. She burns and blazes and tastes like a solar flare on his mouth, somewhere between cayenne pepper and honey, aflame between his hands.

But he’s getting ahead of himself.

(Annie’s a fierce warrior anyway, really. But he can’t admit that – it’d be too far out of character for Han Solo.)

“Han,” Annie shouts, the rendered environment of the collapsing Death Star shimmering behind her as she whirls toward him. Her hair swings over her shoulder in a pristine curtain. “Not that I don’t trust you, but wouldn’t it be smarter to head for the actual _exit_  before we all get blown to smithereens?!”

“Cool your jets, your highness,” Abed drawls, sidling over to stand beside her and firing his rendered laser gun in a crack shot at the rendered Storm Trooper. “And please –  _you_ , trusting  _me_? That’s a laugh.”

“Now’s not the time for laughs, laser brain,” Annie snarls. “We’ve got company.”

Right on cue, a surge of rendered Storm Troopers come spilling out toward them, and Abed has to force himself not to step back, clenching his rendered gun until his knuckles go white.

“They just can’t leave a guy and a girl alone, can they?” he quips, firing.

Annie scoffs, shooting her own weapon and tossing her hair aside. “Don’t flatter yourself, Solo. I’d rather be left alone with Darth Vader himself.”

“I’d  _love_  to see how that works out for you,” Abed retorts, grabbing her wrist to lead her in a sprint (in place, of course) through the now-dwindled group of Storm Troopers and toward the emergency pods where Chewbacca is waiting for them, ignoring her shrieks of protest. “Pipe  _down_ , princess.”

Annie wrenches herself out of his grasp when they round the rendered corner, facing him with indignation in her wide blue eyes. He smirks down at her, steadying himself in the wake of the faulty Death Star’s imbalance.

“Han,” Annie growls adamantly, gripping his arm and shaking him. “We’re not going to make it out of here alive if you keep – acting like such a...  _nerf-herder_.”

 _Good use of vocabulary_ , Abed thinks proudly in the back of his mind, a niggling poke to Han Solo’s thoughts.

“I’m just trying to make this a little more fun,” Abed insists smugly, never losing the complacent grin. “Your favorite, remember?”

“Yeah, but not when we’re about to be vaporized by an exploding spaceship!” Annie exclaims incredulously. With that, she grasps his hand and strides with him in place, and Abed watches as the rendered hallways move around them.

“Soft hands for such a tough girl,” Abed comments, and Annie’s cheeks go pink. She opens and closes her mouth a few times, clearly pushing back a smile, and Abed’s chest swells. “What’s the matter, your highness? Don’t tell me I’m  _flustering_  you.”

Annie recovers. “In your  _dreams_ , scruffy.”

Abed uses her hold to draw her to his chest in one tug, where she barely halts herself by spreading her palm over the fabric of his vest (and it still has traces of orange paint in the threads, where the light shines through). She blinks up at him, her lower lip sticking out doubtfully, her eyebrows furrowing together. He lifts his free hand and grazes her loose strands of hair with it, tucking them behind her ear.

“Han,” she says uncertainly, still frowning. “This is hardly the time for—”

“I know,” he murmurs, tilting his head and leaning infinitesimally down, tangling his fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck. “But I’m all for throwing them off.”

“Oh,” Annie whispers, and her eyes finally flutter closed, and her fingers curl into the fabric of his vest, and he can feel the warmth from her cheeks hovering at his, and the rendered walls around them start to crumble into smoky black, and Annie’s breath smells like the peanuts she’d eaten earlier.

Abed waits. He’s sure that he can do it this time, that he can face the flame that Annie is without blinking, without shying away. He can’t bring himself to close his eyes, watching her with half-lidded vigilance as she moves her head to the side, just barely, enough to make her hair rustle like paper. And there is some part of him, right between his ribs, that can feel her, that can hold her, its beating fingers flinging aside the pretense of Han Solo or Batman or an impeccable impersonation of Jeff. Annie is curled there, like sunshine.

“Annie,” he says before he can stop himself (say it soft and it’s almost like praying), and she halts. Her lashes come apart and the blue hits him like a stone, round at every edge, smoother than ice, and she fills those spaces among his bones and she still smells like peanuts.

The destruction halts around them, plunged into silence. The rendered gun in his hand falls to the floor and Annie’s fingers weave between the gaps.

“Abed...?” she calls out, hardly more than a whisper, frozen a mere inch from his lips,  _warm_.

“End simulation,” Abed blurts out, and the rendered walls fall away. Annie lets out a noise in the back of her throat somewhere between indignation and disappointment, wetter than it should be, and the yellow tape of the Dreamatorium fills the walls behind her.

“You did great today, your highness,” Abed tells her, back to himself, back to the inflections that only give the beats beneath them away to him. “That was fun.”

He brushes past her and her shoulder bumps against his and it almost makes his whole arm go numb.

“Abed!” she exclaims with a stutter, whirling around.

He halts, his back to her, one hand resting on the doorknob back to the real world.

“Why didn’t you...?” she barely croaks out, sounding, inexplicably, on the brink of tears, the kind that come when she can’t figure out the answer to a difficult test question and it makes her scream in the middle of class.

Abed finally draws up the courage to turn to her, his fingers falling away from the door. She’s staring at him with consternation in her eyes, her hands dangling at either side of her, looking more wounded than any laser gun could leave her.

“It’s obvious,” he tells her, his eyes darting to the floor because her eyes are making his insides twist. “We needed to end on a cliffhanger.”

“Not Han,” Annie whispers. “ _You_.”

Abed blinks at her, his mind split two ways like a watermelon. Her lips are pink and bitten and small and they would fit so perfectly on his, he thinks.

“Because you don’t want me,” he explains concisely, pointing at her. “You want bad boys. I’m not a bad boy. I’m just me. I’m just Abed.”

Annie straightens her back and shoulders and strides toward him, and he backs away into the door without even thinking.

“You’ve got that look,” he says hurriedly. “The kind you get when you’re ma—”

Annie grabs his face on either side and stands on her tiptoes and it has to be the most unscripted kiss he’s ever had, objectively; it’s messy, and hasty, and needy, and his hands are on Annie’s hips before he even considers putting them there.

In the movies they always stand still. They always pull each other close and never breathe and it always rains. He can hear the water from Troy’s shower rattling on the tile next door.

It’s enough.

 _I love you_ , he thinks, far too early, far too quickly, and thank god he doesn’t say it out loud—

“I know,” Annie whispers, just a breath between tasting him. “I know, Abed, I know this is weird; just—just, please, don’t stop what you’re doing.”

Abed tightens his grip on her waist and tugs her, gently, closer. Her foot pops into the air behind her.

Abed moves away. “You think a princess and a... a guy like me...?”

“Yeah,” Annie says, sotto voce, her hands slipping down to his shoulders.  

The sound of their neighbors taking the garbage cans out sounds like thunder. It’s even more of enough.

**Author's Note:**

> HELP, I HAVEN'T SEEN STAR WARS IN YEARS. I've been fussing over this so much that it's late so I figure I should let it go.


End file.
